


hope when the hour is dark

by ponderinfrustration



Series: the rifle cares not [5]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Irish War of Independence, Angst, Birthday, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Historical References, Kissing, M/M, Multi, mild sexual references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29270484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: 16 April 1919. Philippe de Chagny is alone with his thoughts on his birthday. Until he has a surprise visitor.
Relationships: Comte Philippe de Chagny/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Comte Philippe de Chagny/Erik | Phantom of the Opera/La Sorelli
Series: the rifle cares not [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1707319
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	hope when the hour is dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bogglocity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bogglocity/gifts).



> Another little pre-series installment, this one written because today is Bogglocity's birthday!
> 
> Title comes from the poem 'Her Eyes', written by Terence MacSwiney.

The morning of Philippe de Chagny’s thirty-eighth birthday dawns misty.

Not cold, but just that chill to the air, that watery quality of the light that he knows will strengthen as the day goes on and, if there is no breeze, might even be slightly _warm_.

Warm weather in mid-April is fickle, but he lives in hope.

He has spent the night in the Imperial Hotel—a little treat for himself. He is alone, because Sorelli had to take messages to Tralee and then infiltrate an RIC barracks to determine the best means of attack, and Erik is gone to Dublin, with a series of plans memorised so that even if he is stopped there is nothing incriminating on him.

There have been far too many arrests for Philippe’s taste.

Raoul, of course, is in school. Is _safe_. Nothing that happens down here can touch him and for that Philippe is grateful, but he wishes the business that called him to Cork had not been so urgent, that he might have had some chance of dropping into Clongowes to visit his brother.

Sometimes, it still catches him off-guard that Raoul is fifteen, and not a little boy anymore.

Philippe has gotten into the habit, of wiring Raoul with where he is travelling to, or has just arrived in, to keep him from worrying. They have gotten into the habit of sending their telegrams in Irish, and so early yesterday morning he sent a message that simply read _Cathair Chorcaí_ to Raoul, and knew Raoul would know that he is likely meeting with the Cork Brigades.

He keeps few secrets from his brother. It is best that way.

Still, how he wishes he could be spending today with Raoul. Raoul would insist on giving him a gift, likely a book of one kind or another, and maybe they would go out to a restaurant. And, if they were not away on business, Sorelli and Erik would join them, and by evening Raoul would slip away to his room to leave them in privacy, and Erik would kiss him, _happy birthday, old man_ , with that twinkle in his eye, and Sorelli would kiss them both and say, _I reckon it’s going to be a very happy birthday indeed,_ and before they knew it they would be up in his room, giggling and kissing and undressing each other slowly, all three of them…

But no. No. It is not to be, this year. Perhaps next year, maybe.

Strange, to think of himself as being thirty-eight. It feels like it should weigh different, that he should be somehow different to how he was yesterday, or the day before. And every year it feels like that and every year he feels much the same as on the day before, and if there is any difference in him, then no one seems to notice.

There are no birthday telegrams, not yet. Most of the people who sent him telegrams in years gone by no longer speak to him, or they are dead, and several of those who might send him telegrams do not know that today is his birthday. And Raoul is in school, safe, and likely will not be able to wire him until evening, anyway.

It is a quiet morning, this morning. Just what he needs.

(So he tells himself.)

The hotel was an excellent idea. After last night’s meeting in the backroom of the Wallace sisters’ tobacco shop, going on late after the day of travelling, he was fit to pass out. And he had an offer of a bed from Terry Mac, but it’s only two months since Terry Mac was released from Lincoln and besides, the man has a young daughter, not a year old, yet, and it did not seem right to intrude.

(Philippe has seen a photo of the little girl, that Terry showed him with a touch of a grin, and she reminds Philippe of Raoul at that age, just getting adventurous and full of chatter, and he missed his brother with an ache so fierce he could hardly manage a smile.)

(Philippe does not carry a photo of Raoul with him. If he were to be arrested—and a boy of fifteen is most of the way to being a man. If the wrong person decided to get at him, then Raoul—No. He will not put his brother in danger.)

(Only last year the war was going on. Last year, and if conscription had come in then Philippe would have had to either fight or be imprisoned, and he would have taken imprisonment any day over fighting but if the war had gone on too long, and he was locked away—)

(He does not think Raoul would lie about his age. But he does not think there is much that would keep the British Army from sending boys off to fight their war for them.)

Mac Curtain offered him a room as well for the night, telling him that his wife wouldn’t mind, but Mac Curtain has a young family too, with several children in it, and it didn’t seem right to stay with them either.

So, the Imperial Hotel. And there is nothing for Philippe to do, today. Not until he gets word back from Mac Curtain on what the latest plan is. He could stay in bed all day, if he wants.

It might be an idea, if he were not alone.

He is tired, but not so tired that he could sleep the day away. And seven in the morning is too early to break out the brandy.

One of the Wallaces pressed a box of expensive cigarettes into his hand last night, but he doesn’t feel like a smoke, not yet.

What is there for him to do? Write letters? Maybe later. He could turn his hand to some poetry, but melancholy poetry is hardly right for a birthday celebration. And it is too early to go out and find music anywhere. The Wallaces sell books as well, of course, but he prefers to travel light and if he bought a book he’d only have to leave it behind.

There _is_ the Carnegie Library, of course. He remembers it from before, a peaceful sort of place, beside the City Hall. It’s hardly open yet, but later, maybe.

Later.

He rolls over and resolves to sleep a little longer. And then he will make himself presentable, and go to the library, and wander the city awhile, have a smoke. Not much to think about, today. At least, it doesn’t feel like it.

A knock on the door.

His heart thuds.

The key is out of the lock, is tucked into his trousers. His revolver is in the drawer. It’s hardly the police, come now.

He isn’t even using his own name, checked in under _Tomás Mac Easmainn_. How would they ever find him?

A rattling of the lock, rough scrape of something inside it. A _lock pick_.

The police would never use a lock pick. They’d probably kick the door in.

He rolls out of bed, and has just pulled his trousers on under his nightshirt when the door swings open.

And there, wrapped in a heavy coat, a hat tilted over his eyes, is Erik.

_Erik._

What is Erik doing here?

And Philippe can only stare, lost for words for one of the few times in his life, as the door swings shut, and Erik sweeps his hat off.

“Well, aren’t you pleased to see me?”

* * *

Those gold-hazel eyes.

That ravaged face.

Those twisted lips.

_Erik._

* * *

Philippe is not crying. His eyes are just damp.

* * *

Erik’s arms warm around him.

All right, he might be crying.

* * *

_“What are you doing here?”_

_“Come to see you, of course.”_

* * *

_“You’re supposed to be in Dublin…”_

_“You hardly think I’d be anywhere else on your birthday.”_

* * *

_“Sorelli will be here in a little while.”_

* * *

A sip of brandy burning his tongue, straight from Erik’s flask, but enough to steady him never mind it’s far too early to be drinking.

And then, Erik’s lips, and a laugh bubbles up inside Philippe, muffled in his mouth.

“You ridiculous man.”

“You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

* * *

He does not ask how Erik knew where in the city to find him. Does not ask how Erik made it down from Dublin so quickly. Does not ask how he and Sorelli arranged this surprise between them without he, Philippe, finding out.

He does not ask anything, not when it is enough that Erik is _here_.

Here, and he loves him, and it has been the best part of eight months (seven months and twenty-two days), since he first knew that this unnameable thing that he feels for Erik was shared by Erik for him, and the memory of that day, the knowledge that Erik _loves him too_ , spreads warm beneath his sternum, and Erik’s hand is cupping the back of his head, and Erik’s mouth is warm against his throat, and there are tears in his eyes but they are _happy_ tears.

They are relief.

* * *

“I brought you a ring,” the muffle of Erik’s voice, his hand warm, taking Philippe’s. And Philippe’s collection of rings is tucked safe at home, in case he should be arrested, and perhaps that is why he feels out of sorts, this strange nakedness of his hands, but there is a twist of silver, that Erik slips onto his finger, warm from being tucked against Erik’s heart, and Philippe kisses it, and smiles.

A promise, and a reminder, and a hope.

“Thank you,” he whispers, and Erik leans into him.

“You’re welcome."


End file.
